In the Church Yard
by Edward Carson
Summary: Carson and Robert grieve at the grave of Robert's father, the Sixth Earl of Grantham, and take the first steps in forging the relationship that will see them through the next three decades in the life of Downton Abbey and make them, eventually, friends. Set about 1897. Introspective and a little melancholy in places. One-shot.
**IN THE CHURCH YARD (** _ **circa 1897)**_

In the misty haze of dawn on a crisp mid-May morning a tall, powerfully-built man in the formal black and white livery of a senior house servant strode into the church yard of Downton village and began to pick his way carefully among the gravestones. The grass, wet with dew, feathered his highly polished shoes, streaking the fine leather. He would have to buff them up again before he began his working day. But in the moment his usual regard for sartorial perfection was the last thing on his mind.

Charles Carson visited the churchyard frequently, almost every time he came to the village. It was not out of the way, conveniently situated on the route between the great house of Downton Abbey and the post office and shops in the High Street. He would spend only a few minutes there each time, just enough to pay his respects and to remember. His parents were buried there, and an infant brother. Dad was dead only a few years now, Mum more than a decade, the baby thirty years gone. He expected to lie there himself, one day.

No one in the village remarked on this habit of his because it was one they almost all shared. The dead were close by in a small village. They remained part of the fabric of life even as the day-to-day routines unfolded without them. The graves were kept tidy as a matter of honour. Glass jars with flowers in them dotted more than a few of them. Even the graves of those who were the last of their family, or whose descendants had moved away, were neatly tended. Everyone knew everyone else in Downton village.

It was very quiet at this hour. Dawn was an unusual time to be traipsing through the churchyard and his visit might have drawn comment from the early risers in the village if he had been seen. He himself didn't usually rise until six. This morning, though, he was up with the scullery maids who, having very little to do with him and sharing a slight apprehension of him as the head of the downstairs staff, scuttled out of his way, as though worried he might take issue with the way they laid the fires. But he had other things on his mind. And, besides, the maids were not his jurisdiction.

He would have been glad for the extra minutes of sleep this morning. Yesterday had been exhausting. There had been so many people in and out of the house, staying at the house, making so much more work. The extraordinary circumstances imposed additional burdens, not only practical but also emotional, as a death always did. The servants had fallen into their beds last night exhausted, he as drained as the rest. More, for he felt the loss more keenly than any of them. But things had to be done and as the butler of Downton Abbey, he had had many responsibilities. He'd had no time for his own grief.

For he was grieving. This wasn't something he wanted to share with anyone else. His regard for His Lordship was personal and he wanted to reflect on what the man meant to him in his own way, without having to explain or reveal himself to others. His was a position of authority at the Abbey. He could not behave in any way that lowered the dignity or decorum of that position and, with it, of the house he served. But he wouldn't ignore his feelings either. And the feeling of loss was intense.

The pain of his own father's death, though it happened four years ago now, was still acutely with him, something that he realized unexpectedly when, five days earlier, he had watched His Lordship breathe his last. But His Lordship was important to him in his own right, too. The man had given him every consideration, nurtured his rise through the ranks. It was not too much to say that Lord Grantham had a major role in making him the man he was today. And Lord Grantham had been fond of him. Carson had acknowledged this at appropriate moments over the past several years, in the subtle and understated ways that they spoke of such things. But he wanted to make a final statement of his gratitude, his respect, and his affection, too. Thus this solitary vigil in the graveyard the morning after the funeral.

He went straight to the new grave, bypassing those of his parents. He would stop by them on the way out. A whole section of the churchyard was set apart for the Crawley family, whose patronage supported the church and its minister in both temporal and spiritual terms. There were monuments here to the five preceding Earls of Grantham, the most modest of them that of the allegedly modest Third Earl. His simple granite marker was dwarfed by those of his more illustrious, or perhaps more self-important, ancestors and descendants. The Sixth Earl's monument would be large, too - he and his wife moved in very high circles - but, of course, it wouldn't be in place for another six months. The ground had to settle first.

Carson had attended the funeral yesterday. The whole house had been there, including the cook and her staff, though they had to scuttle back to the kitchens directly the service finished that they might prepare for the post-funeral gathering. The entire village had turned out as well. His Lordship had had an almost daily presence among the villagers and his tenants. They shared a genuine sadness at his loss. And then there were also the dignitaries - local and beyond, the well-born for miles around and from as far away as London, too. Prince Alfred, in whose retinue the Sixth Earl had served, begged off on grounds of ill health. He was known to be struggling. Many of those who had come from afar were staying at the Abbey and most of them were still there today, though they would soon be gone again. This meant his time in the church yard this morning must be limited.

His heart had gone out to the family. Lady Grantham, now the Dowager, had been a pillar of strength throughout, which was only to be expected. She and her husband were a stately pair who had presided over Downton for thirty years. It seemed almost an affront to their status that His Lordship should have been struck down by a common fever and then swept away by that most democratic of killers, pneumonia. When the visitors all left, she would pack her things and move to the Dower House, which had been unoccupied now for some time.

But Carson felt more deeply for Robert Crawley, not yet thirty, who was now the Seventh Earl of Grantham. The cares of an estate weighed heavily on any man's shoulders in these perilous times, no matter how schooled he might be in his duty. He had borne the emotional trials of the past few days with an admirable forbearance. Other great challenges awaited him. His sister, Lady Rosamund, had been a model of dignity, though the facade was less complete there. Her father had been her favourite parent and she would miss his moderating influence.

Then there was the Viscountess Crawley, His Lordship's American wife, and now the Countess of Grantham. She had not yet been a decade in England and the rough edges of her American origins were still evident. She bore a particular and peculiar burden in all of this, for thus far she had given birth to two daughters and no heir. It was unfortunate that she should ascend to the further responsibilities of Countess while still struggling with that task.

Miss Mary and Miss Edith had made only a brief appearance yesterday, during the public ceremonies, and then been whisked off to the nursery again. They had come across bewildered, as who wouldn't, at their tender ages? Carson thought he might slip up to see them later, if opportunity offered, and bring them the gingerbread Mrs. Yardley, the cook, had said she would make if she got a chance. She would. He knew that the gruff woman had a soft spot for children, having had a hard time of it in her own upbringing.

For all the structural changes that would descend on the family at large as a result of His Lordship's passing, he knew that they would all miss the man at the heart of it. The passing of Joseph Frederick Edmund Crawley - husband, father, grandfather - had torn the fabric of life at Downton and it would never heal so much as be accommodated by those who survived him. *****

He stood bare-headed by the grave, the mound of earth still shrouded in the floral tributes of the grieving family, village, and estate. Alone with his thoughts, he opened his heart to the feelings he had suppressed these few days past and let the tears come. Death was a cumulative experience. Every new loss prompted a sorrow only exacerbated by the grief of each death that had preceded it. He had wept thus over his mother, the first of his great sorrows. He had wept also at the graves of the two other men who lay not far away and whose influence on his life was immeasurable - Dad, of course, and Mr. Finch, his predecessor as butler of Downton Abbey. Dad (and Mum, too) had made it possible for him to aspire to the pinnacles of service. His Lordship had opened the door and seen to it that he had every opportunity. Mr. Finch had made it work. He was grateful to them all.

Loss was always so hard to bear.

He was so preoccupied with his reflections that he did not hear the step of another muffled in the damp grass. The visitor was almost upon him before the snap of a twig alerted him to his presence. He turned to see Robert Crawley, the Seventh Earl of Grantham, at his side.

Robert Crawley did not usually rise so early. It was the custom of the house to allow the servants a reasonable waking hour and time to have a good breakfast before summoning them for the family's daily rituals. But today was different in many ways.

"My lord." Carson turned away momentarily that he might wipe the wetness from his face and restore his professionally dispassionate demeanor.

"We think alike," Robert said, standing beside the butler and looking down at the grave. "There were so many people here yesterday, it didn't feel like a proper goodbye. I wanted a quiet moment alone with him."

His Lordship spoke casually, but Carson was sensitive to the situation. "I shall leave you, my lord."

Robert held out a restraining hand. "Not just yet." He paused. "Please."

The two men stood in silence for a long moment, both of them staring at the grave.

"It was a lovely service," Carson said at length, a remark preliminary to excusing himself again.

Robert nodded. "Travis did a good job. We might have had the bishop, but my father liked Travis. He appointed him to the living, I don't even remember how long ago."

They were both speaking in careful, formal tones, their words crisply enunciated.

"I was gratified by the turnout," Robert went on. "I had no idea, really, how far my father's reach extended. And the villagers and tenants, of course, though it was for them a duty."

"Some duties weigh lightly, my lord," Carson said, with feeling. "His Lordship was very highly regarded among the people of the county and with good reason. Everyone knew him. He took an interest."

The ghost of a smile wafted across Robert's face. "He did, indeed. Thank you for that."

His Lordship gave no indication that he wanted to be left alone. Carson, schooled in the unspoken cues of his employers, discerned an uncertainty about the younger man.

"How is Her Ladyship...Her Ladyship the Dowager, my lord?" He offered a general inquiry. Not for the world would he have used so common a term as _coping_ , for Her Ladyship was made of stern stuff and _dealt_ with things, rather than merely enduring or suffering them.

Robert glanced over at him at this. "She thinks herself too young to be a Dowager and she's right, although my grandmother was widowed earlier. She's had thirty years, but thinks she ought to have had thirty more. And I appreciate her view. His Lordship was not ill a day in his life until he died."

"Life - death - they are unfair and unpredictable," Carson said sympathetically.

"As you would know," Robert responded. School, the army, and marriage had all worked to keep Robert Crawley occupied for several years past, but he had known the man who stood beside him here all his life and he was, as the future Earl of Grantham, keenly aware of the goings on of the estate, even if he were not so in the thick of things as his father had been. He had known Carson's parents and attended their funerals.

"Her Ladyship...the Dowager... will have a hard time of it," Robert went on. "She's preparing, of course, to vacate the house as soon as the guests are gone, but she's never lived alone. And she doesn't give up power easily either."

The Dowager would not, of course, be living alone in literal terms. The staff of the Dower House would be smaller than that of Downton Abbey, but she would never know the reality of complete solitude. But Carson understood what His Lordship meant.

"She is a strong woman," he said.

Robert nodded. He started to speak, hesitated, and then turned a little that he might stand at an angle to the man next to him. "She may ask you to go with her, Carson. She likes you. It is _your_ decision to make, of course, but I..." He looked directly into the other's eyes. "...I would prefer you to remain at Downton."

For a butler, there was no higher position in the county than that of butler at Downton Abbey and thus, in terms of ambitions, no aspiring career man would be likely to reject it in favour of service in a smaller house for a lesser dignitary. And yet it would have been neither presumptuous of the Dowager to ask such a favour nor surprising of a favoured servant to accept it. Ambition was a magnet, but loyalty had a role to play, too. And so it was for Carson in this matter.

"My Lord, I am the butler of the Earl of Grantham. I am your man."

They were both of them well schooled in dispassion, their observance of formality the means by which they communicated and understood one another. Robert's countenance brightened involuntarily and then was immediately restored to impassiveness. "Thank you, Carson." He let a few seconds pass. "I'm glad of your support. I shall be very glad of your experience. We are not novices together."

"There is also Mr. Jarvis, my lord," Carson noted, referring to the estate agent. This post was the estate equivalent of the butler in the house and as critical to His Lordship's successful management.

"He is reliable," Robert said cautiously, "and I do not doubt his loyalty. But he _is_ my father's man and I fear may remain so." He sighed. "I've watched my father all my life, Carson. I know _what_ he did, but somehow it is _how_ he did it that eludes me in this moment. I don't feel ready."

That they were having this conversation in the churchyard over the grave of His Lordship's father gave Carson a sudden renewed regard for the man whose bones lay at their feet. Although he had only served the Sixth Earl as butler for five years, he had come to appreciate that there was a relationship between a lord and his butler that transcended that of employer and servant, and that this connection might be more or less intimate depending on the individuals involved. Carson had understood that His Lordship, the Sixth Earl, would never regard him as highly as he had Mr. Finch, for such closeness was the product of time, as well as disposition. And yet His Lordship had given him glimpses of the kind of bonds that might develop within such a framework. In appointing so young a butler - Carson had been only thirty-one and not an obvious candidate with more senior men to be had, had his Lordship sought them out - His Lordship had been acting with his son's welfare in mind.

Now here they were and Robert Crawley, with whom he had always had a cordial if removed relationship, was already wanting to count on him and counting on him. And thanks to His Lordship's confidence and instruction, he, Carson, was prepared to shoulder that responsibility. He was charged not only with the practical administration of Downton Abbey, but also the care and support of its commanding officer.

"It is only natural, my lord, to harbour such feelings," he said easily. "We are never wholly prepared for the challenges we face, not in practical terms anyway. I felt the same, on a smaller scale, stepping into Mr. Finch's shoes. We have been well trained, both of us, and we may count on that. But, in the end, it is character that determines success. And you are well served there."

Robert nodded. "Yes. Thank you. I see what you mean. But..." His carefully cultivated reserve gave way then and a pained look descended upon him, his mouth tightening into a hard line as he struggled to contain his feelings. "...I miss him already." He closed his eyes tightly, willing his tears away and then, mindful of the man next to him, added, "I'm so sorry to be blubbering, Carson."

"I'm blubbering myself, my lord."

This was a characteristic overstatement by two men who believed in strict regulation of feeling. Their eyes were wet, no more than that. Their voices were still steady, even as they confessed emotional indulgence. They stood side by side in rigid silence for a long moment, each calling upon well developed but still imperfect techniques of self-control to restore emotional equilibrium. It was a few minutes before either were breathing easily again.

"I will leave you to your observances, my lord," Carson said formally, but waited for His Lordship's approving nod before moving away.

The sun was above the horizon now and all would be awake and preparing for the day in the servants' quarters at the Abbey. He should be away there himself, but he would not leave the churchyard without due regard for those he cherished who also lay there. He paused only briefly by Mr. Finch's grave, but gave him the courtesy of remembrance, reviewing his catalogue of memories for a single episode and reliving it briefly as a sort of homage to the man. Then he moved on to where his parents lay and lingered there, calling up more memories. The stories were important. The dead lived forever in them.

He had stayed longer than he thought for, as he approached the gate, His Lordship caught up with him.

"They all went too soon," His Lordship said, with a glance in the direction of the Carsons' graves.

They had.

They turned up the gravel path that led across the Abbey grounds, the shortcut to the house that bypassed the roundabout route of the road, falling into step together.

"There may be upwards of thirty people in the dining room for breakfast, Carson," His Lordship said briskly.

"Thirty-four if everyone attends, my lord," the butler replied. He had counted carefully.

"Oh, none of the ladies will take breakfast in bed today. The carriages should be brought round promptly. They'll hold the train, of course, but the logistics of packing up so many guests may put a strain on the schedule."

"The grooms and stablemen were fully advised last night. Horses, carriages, and harness are ready at the discretion of the house. All is in hand, my lord."

Lord Grantham favoured his butler with an approving glance. "Thank you, Carson."

 *** Author's Note:** Who knows what Robert's father's name is? This is my suggestion. As for how many Earls of Grantham there have been, it is an open question. Julian Fellowes identifies Robert variously as Fifth and Seventh. I'm going with the latter.


End file.
